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Vine River III

A mark in the legend meaning strangeness:
owls swoop from one line to the next,
a small key turning behind her eyes.
She let the meaning take itself for granted.
The map is a hunger for dimension,
what meaning becomes becomes meaning.
He preferred the abstract view from indoors
and within the chateau he found maps:
a goat at the local fair, giddy and loud,
three ghosts holding hands in the lane.
She knew one hillside from another in sleep
and she was part of a lake, a subtraction.
Later, in a restless sleep, they spoke of it,
seeing the illusions come and go at will.
Bobbing in the marshy end: silent faces—
each night a new voice made itself known,
the maps coming loose and flapping away.
Both of them together under cloud-light.
Bother the animals and they will lunge.
He could feel anger rushing in his legs;
what they could see of it blinded them.